Paint By Numbers
by Wheezy1
Summary: Dark Harry.  The war is over, the UK in shambles, as is Harry’s life.  It’s time for vengeance against the people who started all his misery.  Rated T for violence and torture.  No sex, no romance, no language, no slash.  Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my attempt at a dark story. It's not all warm and fuzzy like my others. The chapters are short, details murky. My critics who hated the optimistic good Harry in my other story will love this one. It's rated for violence and abuse – no language, adult situations or slash._

**Paint By Number**

**Chapter 1**

Murky, fuzzy, confusing. That's all he could feel. Is this birth? Is this death? Slowly, slowly his thoughts started becoming clearer, his puzzlement more coherent. Where am I? _What _am I?

Light. Hazy and distant at first, like trying to see from the bottom of a swimming pool. Then brighter and sharper – there – he could see. And he didn't like it.

Flinging his head back in forth in dumb shock, he realized he was sitting, and that he was sitting next to someone. Squinting with new eyes that didn't quite behave as they should, he turned toward the person he was pressed against.

"Petunia?" he asked with dry mouth. She looked as confused and muzzy as he felt.

"Vernon?" She blinked a few times and faced him. "Where are we?"

"Welcome to my art gallery" a dark voice hissed at them. Slowly they peered out a large glass wall in front of them. A figure stood in the shadows, smirking at them. He was horribly ravaged – one armed, scared by burns and cuts, and deeper scars of emotional maiming marring what could have been a handsome face. He stepped forward into the dim torchlight so they could see him better, and they wish he hadn't.

"Harry?" they gasped in unison.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2  Vengeance

**Chapter 2 – Vengeance**

Green eyes squinted slightly and smiled. It was not a comforting or welcoming smile. Insanity and cruelty flickered behind the gaze.

"As I said, welcome to my art gallery." The-Boy-Who-Lived paced a bit, and Vernon Dursley noticed he still had a slight limp. Probably the lingering effect of the time Vernon had ran his car over the boy's leg. Several times. At the time it seemed like a proper punishment for not washing the car to his liking. It's not his fault his _freak_ friends couldn't heal it any better than that – they usually patched up most of the boy's 'accidents' quickly and return him good as new each time.

Petunia started to tremble. "What are we doing here? What are you going to do with us?" A tear escaped and crept down her cheek. Vernon held her, but was too terrified to comfort his wife more than that.

Harry gave a casual gesture with his left arm and a comfortable chair appeared, accompanied by a small table with a sparse meal and bottle of wine. "Where's your stick thingy?" Vernon blustered, thinking he sounded threatening and in-control.

With a smirk accompanied by a shrug, Harry said "I don't need a wand anymore. Just as well, since you robbed me of my wand arm." He gestured to his right side to point out the obviously missing appendage.

Vernon licked his lips looking at the glass of wine on the table. His meaty hands pressed against the glass separating them as he recalled that evening, when Harry turned 17, that he had bound and gagged the starving and weakened teen and hacked his arm off in a drunken rage. Somehow his alcohol addled brain convinced him that if his freak nephew couldn't use a wand, he might become normal, and less of a threat. "Couldn't your kind grow it back?" he croaked.

"No." Harry lifted the glass and took a sip, swirling the red liquid in appreciation. "Ummm – I think you liked this cabernet, Uncle. It was one of your favorites, if I recall." Vernon nodded, mesmerized by the blood red wine in his nephew's glass.

"It's a shame you can't eat or drink anymore." Harry slowly consumed his meal, watching with perverse satisfaction the agony reflected on his Aunt and Uncles' faces. Food finished, he banished the plate and studied his relatives. Vernon nervously glanced around – Petunia and He were in a small cramped room – a cupboard by the look of it, with stairs for a ceiling. It was dark and full of spiders and smelled stuffy. There was barely room for the both of them – especially considering his personal girth. They sat very uncomfortably on small wooden stools that did not allow their feet to touch the ground while sitting.

"WHAT IS GOING ON?" Vernon screamed as Petunia sobbed with fear. Harry smiled.

"Vengeance, dear Aunt, dear Uncle. You are dead – Voldemort tortured and slaughtered you after you kicked me out. The blood protection you gave me by having me under your roof had kept you safe too. Once Four Privet Drive was not my home anymore, you were open game. I couldn't help you, seeing how I was half dead myself." The green eyes grew even colder, if possible. "I survived. I returned to Privet Drive and gathered hair, nail clippings, and used bandaids so I could commission this portrait when the war was over. I needed your DNA so you would be cognizant."

"W-w-we're a _painting_?" his Aunt squeaked. She flung herself off of the stool and started banging on the walls and glass, frantic to find a way out. "Where's my Duddums!"

Harry threw his head back and laughed. The torchlight flickered and magnified every scar on his cheeks and neck, casting shadowsthat emphasizedthe damage. Damage caused by Vernon's creative use of a knife and boiling water. "Ickle Duddleykins is dead."

"When I get out of here, you will _see _just how funny this joke is" Vernon growled at Harry, punching his hand for emphasis. That gesture always had his freak nephew quaking. But it didn't seem to affect him now.

"You are a painting. A very aware painting thanks to a very skilled artist and very dark magic. You cannot leave, you cannot eat. You cannot die. You will, however, sit and let me rant and rave and catch you up on the events of the past few years." He poured another glass and took an appreciative sniff. "Very good year, Uncle. The artist promised that you would hunger and thirst – was he correct?"

Despite himself, Vernon nodded. He was very thirsty.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3  Panic

**Chapter 3 Panic**

"Hummm – where to begin?" Harry's voice was silky and reflected faint amusement. His relatives shuddered at the tone. Petunia had tried to hide in the corner under the stairs, but it was impossible – the glass front of the 'canvas' covered every inch – there was no where to hide. Weakly she climbed back on the stool. Vernon stood with a groan – the 12" seat was murder on his gigantic posterior. They stared at him dully, waiting to learn more of their condition and fate.

"As my school years progressed, I told my professors what you were doing to me. Dumbledore," he spat the name with venom, "just pooh poohed me every time." Mimicking the headmaster he droned "your Aunt and Uncle might not spoil you as much as you'd like, Harry my boy, but deep down they truly love you." He took a deep drink of his wine and narrowed his eyes. "You would think the broken legs would be a hint. Or the burns. Or the cuts. Or the many, many other broken bones."

"It's not our fault" Petunia cried in a voice racked with hysteria. "We didn't want you to begin with. He wouldn't take no for an answer!"

Harry jumped to his feet, glass crashing to the floor and shattering. "No – he _doesn't_ take no for an answer. So that makes it alright to torture a child?" With a deep breath the wizard calmed himself and sat again, conjuring another glass.

"You healed so quickly, we figured it didn't hurt like a _normal_ person" Vernon blustered, sweating profusely.

"My cries for mercy and help didn't clue you in?" Harry sneered.

"Anyway" he abruptly shielded his emotions and continued, "Summer after fifth year. Godfather is dead, Dumbledore refuses to help, nobody is allowed to talk to me. You come home drunk, dear Uncle, and decide to free me of my right arm, and dump me in a ditch outside of town. Thankfully Hedwig followed and got help. Sadly, more wizards saw the damage than Albus could obliviate. I was sent to my friends at The Burrow to recover."

"Well, see boy – we both got what we wanted!" Vernon babbled, hoping to lighten the dark mood of his nephew.

Harry just grinned, a dangerous, maniacal grin. "Not quite. The Burrow wasn't protected enough. The wards were not good. Voldemort attacked – my foster family, my friends, my fiancé' – all dead thanks to me. Everyone was home, celebrating my birthday. Everyone is gone." He broke instantly into dry sobbing – the keening of a man who had cried far too much in his young life.

"That's not our fault!" Petunia screeched in panic. "We didn't kill them!"

The tears instantly stopped, replaced by the cold, cruel grin. "Many people killed the Weasleys. Voldemort, Dumbledore, you two, me. We are all to blame. It was truly the start of the Second War. As the years passed you were dead, Hermione was dead, Dumbledore was dead, Remus, Tonks, Moody…dead. Every mixed blood student it seemed was dead. Dead dead dead. I couldn't take anymore." He emptied the glass and poured another.

"I ran. You always said I was a coward, dear Uncle. You always called me a wimp that couldn't defend him self." Vernon looked down, away from his nephews and wife's eyes. It was just beginning to dawn in the man's underused brain that some of this just might be his fault.

The snide, cruel voice continued. "I hid at headquarters. Why not? The whole Order of the Phoenix was dead. Even the phoenix was dead!" Harry broke into crazed giggles, abruptly stood and left the room.

Vernon and Petunia gaped at each other. "Quick! Help me kick down a wall while he's gone. He's totally nuts!"

* * *


	4. Chapter 4  My Love

**Chapter 4 My Love**

Vernon dully watched his insane nephew return to the room. The room was windowless and only lit when Harry was present. There was no way of knowing how long he had been gone.

Petunia and he had kicked, pounded, and shoved every inch of the tiny cupboard they were in when he left. Hands and shoulders bruised and bleeding, they finally gave up. They wanted to sleep, but there was only room to sit or stand in the room – there was not enough floor space for even one of them to curl up in a corner.

Sometime during the time Harry was gone, they came to the conclusion their nephew had to be right – they must be in some magical condition. They felt human and alive – they bled, they thirst, and they could cry. Oh how they cried. But they found they did not faint from exhaustion, and had no need to use the bathroom. Somehow they truly were a painting.

They had not been able to tell much of the room their painting was hung in, as it was pitch dark when Harry wasn't there. The floor was stone they agreed, as the torch lit only the area with Harry's chair. Vernon was disturbed that he could not see the walls or dimension of the 'gallery'.

"How was your first night?" Harry leered at the pair. They quaked at the coldness emanating from their nephew. "On with the show" he giggled, sitting down and conjuring up more wine. He gave a mocking toast to his Aunt and Uncle"

"So there I was, barely healed from my 'armectomy' and finding myself the only survivor skirmish after skirmish after skirmish. I learned to kill. The anguish of all your 'lessons', dear Uncle, taught me to like it." Harry stared into space, recalling horrors that Vernon prayed he wouldn't share. "Grimmauld Place has a lovely hidden library of dark arts books. Snape shared the location with me before he died."

Vernon looked at his wife. Grimmauld Place? Dark arts? Snape? None of these words made any sense to them, but they didn't ask.

"I became very powerful, dear Aunt, dear Uncle. I learned all kinds of fun stuff – how to do my 'freakish magic' without a 'stick thingy', elemental stuff, necromancy…, fun. Dark." He smiled a cruel smile. "I ended up with lots of 'power he knows not'. I used it."

"W-w-what happened to V-v-v-oldemort?" Petunia stuttered weakly.

"Dead. Fun and messy!" The insane giggling started again. Vernon and Petunia shuddered. What had they created? It couldn't be their fault – look how sensitive and kind Dudders turned out!

"It's been eight years, dear Aunt, dear Uncle. Eight years yesterday since you axed my arm and the killings started." Harry glared at them. "I removed Voldemort from this earth a little over three years ago. The war he raged took out three-quarters of Britain. Muggle and magical. You are lucky you croaked when you did."

They visibly blanched. "What state is Europe in now?" Petunia asked weakly.

With a dismissive gesture, Harry replied, "its in shambles. Economies collapsed, total chaos, the barriers between the magical and muggle worlds dissolved. They are trying to create a rather medieval type of government of both worlds merged, but the other countries are all weirded out about our wizards." He sipped his wine. "It's not nice – I'm glad I have privacy here _– I_ know how to ward a house. There is no one for miles and miles, and I'm quite a ways underground anyhow. I conjure any food or supplies I need."

"Anyway" he stood abruptly, "I suppose you might be curious what kind of room you are in?" Vernon nodded dully, one eye on the bottle of wine. With a swift gesture the lights flared to reveal their 'home'.

The room was rectangular, the floor indeed stone as were the walls. There was no door or windows. A crude cot was against the far wall – evidently Harry was living in this room and magic'd his necessities and travel to and from. The oddest thing was the décor – paintings were hung all over the walls, floor to ceiling across from his Aunt and Uncle's canvas. They seemed to all face the Dursleys.

"You see, it truly is an art gallery" Harry giggled. He rolled his eyes and wiped some wine from his mouth with his sleeve. "I commissioned some of the portraits, gathered others. These are mostly people that were dear to me eight years ago. Back when my soul was human. They are all asleep, waiting for my touch to wake them."

Vernon and his wife gawked at the paintings – they were darkened and muddy looking – they could barely make out the shapes of figures or buildings in them. Harry grinned, dragged his chair off to a side that gave him a good view of both the Dursleys and the darkened portraits. Satisfied, he limped over to a large painting toward the side. With a gesture and a muttered word, the canvas brightened and came into view. It was a pretty cottage, timber framed and thatched, surrounded by flowers in the bloom of early summer.

"Godric's Hollow. My parent's home. My birthplace. Destroyed by Voldemort 23 years ago." He gazed at the house peacefully, lookingalmost sane for a time. Then he smiled malevolently at his relatives. "Did you know in a typical magical portrait the people can go from painting to painting?"

His aunt and uncle gazed at Harry and the cottage with hope surging in their breasts.

"Not you though. You were a _special_ commission." Harry chuckled, a dry sound without warmth. He moved to a larger canvas next to Godric's Hollow and repeated the incantation. A village street lined with shops and homes came into sharp focus. "Hogsmeade – the only magical town in the UK. You would have hated it."

Harry stopped in front of another canvas. "This is the last one for today. One a day – a painting a day. This is my version of paint by numbers." He giggled at the joke, weak as it was. One more incantation, and a figure came into view. A young, very pretty woman was sitting asleep in a comfortable chair, a book setting in her lap like it had fallen during her nap. Vernon gazed longingly at the plush seat more than the girl.

"This is Ginny. My fiancé'. We were going to be married after graduation. Even with one arm she loved me. Even with all the scars you left me with." Tears poured down his face as he caressed the flat cheeks of the sleeping girl with flaming red hair. "Wake, my love" he whispered.

Petunia and Vernon watched. There was nothing else to do. The girl blinked, yawned and stretched. She looked around and spotted their nephew. "Harry? Am I dead?"

"Yes love, Voldemort got everyone. I'm the only one left." He sobbed, his solitary hand spread on her canvas in a futile gesture of primal longing, wishing he could jump through to her side.

"Everyone, Harry?" she cried in return, dropping the pretty tears of the young and lovely.

"Don't worry – I have more portraits to wake up, Gin. I have your whole family, our friends, and homes to stay in. Many more." He gazed at her hungrily. "I've waited so long for this, Gin. I had to wait for Voldemort to die, wait for all the paintings to be finished."

"You did it? He's gone?" She smiled at the wizard, her right hand mirroring his on the canvas. "I knew you would, my love."

"Yes – he's gone." With a deep breath Harry stroked her painted cheek again. "Gin, I need you to do something for me. That's my dear Aunt and Uncle" and he gestured to the portrait of the Dursleys. "Please give them an earful for me. I wish to have a drink and enjoy it." The redhead snapped her attention over to Harry's relatives with a look of fury. "They cannot leave their canvas or avoid you, my love. They are trapped forever. Right now Godric's Hollow and Hogsmeade are awake – you may go anywhere you wish except the Dursleys."

"How _dare_ you" she hissed at the terrified couple. "How could anyone treat a child the way you treated your own flesh and blood. Do you know how many lives Harry saved during the war? The good he did? How much more he could have done if you cared just half as much as a normal person would have? If you had treated his decently he might have prevented all of what happened!"

Petunia, eyes wide with fear, backed as far away as she could. "N-n-no – we didn't do anything, we did what we could!" There seemed to be the start of guilt manifesting in the woman.

Vernon just gaped. "We treated our son just fine, thank you" he growled at Ginny. "Freaks like him" he gestured at Harry, "don't deserve anything more."

"See, Ginny?" Harry spoke from his chair, cradling a glass of wine. "They don't get it. They are why I had such a hard time sharing feelings, understanding your love." He shook his head with sorrow. "Go on to the Hollow, my dearest. I'll wake up your family tomorrow – I'm really tired."

With a gesture Harry extinguished the torches. The only light in the room was a soft glow from the three moving paintings, and by that light Harry walked over to his cot and fell instantly asleep. Vernon and Petunia watched with envy as Ginny threw a rude finger gesture at them, left her painting and wandered the garden of Godric's Hollow a bit before opening the door of the cottage and entering.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5  Family

**Chapter 5 Family**

The torches flared to life, jarring Vernon and Petunia's eyes and senses. They had spent the time Harry slept whispering to each other, watching the paintings across the room. Every dog running the streets, bird flying across the sky, and flower blowing in the breeze brought pangs of envy and pain to the pair. They watched their crazed nephew with fear as he stretched, leered at them, and walked over to Godric's Hollow.

"Gin? You awake?" he called to the cottage's canvas. The door opened and the happy girl ran toward him.

"Here, Harry! I wish you could join me, my love!" She gazed at him with palatable longing. He smiled softly at her, then turned and moved to a large canvas across the room from Godric's Hollow.

Finger waving and one incantation later and a large family of redheads were revealed, sitting asleep on a lawn in front of an impossible house that looked like a jumble of add-ons and extensions. The Dursleys observed the family, assuming they were related to Harry's Ginny. There was a man and wife surrounded by five boys with hair as red as their own. Two of the boys seemed to be twins, but was hard to tell as one was wearing a gag nose with mustache and glasses and the other had a fake arrow through his head. Petunia was sure she would not like the family – they lived like tramps in the wreck of a house and the kids had to be weak-minded with hair like that.

"The Burrow!" Ginny cried with joy. "But where's Ron?"

"Special portrait, my love" Harry smiled gently at her. "I'll wake him another day." He looked fondly at the family. "Most of my happy memories were here, Ginny. Wake up Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley! Wake up Fred, George, Percy, Bill and Charlie! Wake up and join your sister." He turned away for a moment and conjured a brandy snifter full of dark liquid.

"Harry dear, are we gone?" Molly gently called out. The family was looking around and examining each other. The twins seemed to enjoy their gag glasses and head gear.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley. I'm afraid that inviting me in was a bad thing to do. Dumbledore hadn't put half the wards on your home he claimed to. Voldemort found me just two days later." Harry's voice broke with the memories.

"I told you the wards weren't right, Mum!" Bill shook his head.

"We don't blame you, Harry" Mr. Weasley told the wizard gently. "In fact, you have our gratitude for this painting."

Ginny entered the painting and was promptly gathered into her family's arms. "Mum, Dad – there are the Dursleys over there. They can't leave, and I'm sure they would love to hear what you think of them." She winked at Harry, who nodded his approval and sat down in his chair.

"PETUNIA DURSLEY! HOW DARE YOU TREAT HARRY THE WAY YOU DID? FINE THING THAT YOU MARRIED AN AXE MURDERER OF A MUGGLE, BUT COULDN'T YOU HAVE AT LEAST PROTECTED YOUR NEPHEW A LITTLE?" Molly was screeching just like Harry fondly remembered. And she hadn't yet hit her stride.

"Harry mate – they can't leave, but can things enter your relative's canvas?" Fred waggled his eyebrow's at the Boy-Who-Lived. George rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Harry shook his head with a smirk. "Sorry guys – they are sealed off." He slowly sipped his brandy, contentedly watching the Weasleys walking through Hogsmeade, flying brooms around The Burrow, and occasionally yelling insults at his Aunt and Uncle.

Vernon and Petunia stared at the living paintings across from them. Those freaks could eat, drink, and move from place to place. Eyes wide with claustrophobic fear, Vernon jerked nervously in his seat, gazing at the dark stairs inches above his head, incrusted with dusty webs. How long would his nephew keep them like this?

* * *


	6. Chapter 6  Big and Little

**Chapter 6 Big and Little**

"I've got a couple paintings for you today, dear Aunt and Uncle" Harry smirked. He was sitting in his chair eating a swiftly created breakfast. He really wasn't hungry – he had waited for this point in his life for years, and food just didn't matter anymore, although he certainly appreciated the alcohol. But he wanted to eat, and eat loudly and conspicuously, simply to torture the Dursleys.

He walked to a very tall and narrow canvas, and the Dursleys were disgusted to see the brightening portrait was that of the filthy giant that had kidnapped Harry on his 11th birthday, standing still with a sleeping boarhound. "Wake up, Hagrid, wake up Fang" Harry called gently.

"Arry? Where did yer get a painting of 'ol Hagrid from?" The giant looked around with amusement.

"Commissioned it, my friend. I took a lock of your hair to make paint from when you died." Harry smiled at the giant and turned to face his relatives. "Hagrid was my first friend. Ever. You do realize that anyone in school that was nice to me was promptly beat up by your thug of a son? I never had friends as a child because of Dudley."

Petunia shook her head in denial. "Duddums was such a kind boy – so smart and gentle!"

Harry snorted. "Open your eyes, Aunty dear. He smoked, drank, did drugs, robbed, pummeled me and all the small kids of the neighborhood constantly. The police were not picking on him – he was even worse than they knew." He reached over to a painting next to Hagrid and brought it to life. It was a strange stone hut with thatched roof in a grassy lawn, woods to the back. "Here, Hagrid. I've got your hut and the forbidden forest for you. The Weasleys are mostly awake, as is Hogsmeade. There's more to come. Feel free to tell my Aunt and Uncle what you think of them." The Boy-Who-Lived retreated his chair to drink and observe.

"Dursley, you great big tub 'o lard!" Hagrid growled and yelled at Vernon. "If yer only knew how many times I begged Dumblydore to let me go and teach yer a lesson! Harry's such a fine lad – a good lad. And you hurt him so bad!" Tears dripped into the giant's beard.

Vernon crashed backwards off his stool, cracking his head on the stairs above and falling heavily to the floor. His stool ended up on top of him as he groaned, wedged in the filthy cupboard. He grabbed at Petunia's hand, but succeeded only in pulling her on top of himself with a screech. Harry watched with detached amusement.

It took a while, but the Dursleys finally managed to stand, get the stools back in position, and climb back on them. "Cramped? Cosy?" Harry leered at the sweating and bruised pair. "Funny – it's the exact dimensions of the cupboard I lived in for ten years. It should be plenty large enough for a living being."

Harry walked over to another painting and brought it to life. There was a pair of strange creatures with bulging eyes and bat-like ears sleeping in front of a manor house.

"What are those?" Petunia sniffed in horror and disgust.

Her nephew shot her a scathing look. "They are house-elves. A different kind of being. Powerful magic, loyal to a fault – even to abusive masters. They are my friends." He turned to the painting. "Wake up Dobby! Wake up Winky!"

"Harry Potter sir! Has the great Harry Potter made a painting of a lowly elf?" Dobby squeaked and jumped up and down in excitement.

"You two saved my life that day" Harry choked in a voice thick with emotion. "I couldn't save yours, but now you can live in my manor forever, with all my friends. I'm waking everyone up."

"Why is horse-lady and hippo-man over there?" Winky gestured to the Dursley's portrait. Winky had grown quite the backbone after Harry had taken her bond, so long ago.

"That is my dear aunt and uncle, Winky, Dobby" Harry gestured dismissively. "They are trapped in that canvas. I wanted to introduce them to people who actually loved me.

Vernon was gaping at the large manor in back of the elves. "You own that property? Where'd you steal the money from, boy?"

The 'boy' walked over close to the Dursleys, while Dobby yelled abuse to the pair for insulting his great friend. "I'm rich, dear Uncle. I always was. The Potters were a well established family, and I inherited another fortune from my godfather. I owned many properties and businesses before the collapse of the economy. I had vaults of money in my bank."

"Well, if you had shared some of that money, perhaps I would not have been so hard on you" Vernon glared greedily at his nephew.

With a steely look Harry hissed back "If you were the tiniest bit kind to me, I would have shared it all."

Harry sat down, sipping a drink and watching. His friends wandered canvas to canvas, greeting each other with hugs and kisses. The twins pulled pranks, Ginny wandered in gardens, Bill and Charlie sat with Hagrid drinking a pint in front of his hut. Mrs. Weasley was hugging Percy for some reason or another, and in the distance Harry could see Mr. Weasley tinkering with his flying car. Harry Potter fell asleep in the chair, an almost peaceful smile on his face.

Petunia gazed at the canvases across from theirs. Her husband's bulk was pressing against her, and the combination of that with the small hard stool had her legs prickling with pins and needles. With her sicko nephew asleep the torches extinguished leaving no light except for the canvases across from them. They were drawn like a moth to a flame – they had to watch.

Happy people, loving people. People of all backgrounds and species. They loved each other, played and hugged. With a start Petunia realized she never hugged her child like that Mrs. Weasley hugged hers. Dudley was just too manly for that kind of fawning, she decided. But somehow she realized for the first time something was missing from her life. Something that status and money couldn't bring.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7 Marauders

**Chapter 7 - Marauders**

"How can they touch and kiss so much" Vernon complained. Loudly. "No wonder they bred like rabbits."

Petunia and he were glaring at the waking Weasleys. The family had decided to have breakfast alfresco, as it was a lovely day in the painting and they wanted Harry's Aunt and Uncle to enjoy the view. Molly had given her husband a passionate kiss when their children were inside gathering the dishes, and the Dursleys found the public display of affection repulsive.

It had been a long night. Weasleys, giants, and elves had been partying, celebrating their new life as paintings. Plenty of ale, visiting, and catching up was going on. Harry slept on, unaware. Petunia and Vernon gazed longingly, wishing they could walk and ease the cramps in their legs, or drink and slake the dryness in their parched mouths. Every one of Harry's friends was so delighted to see each other. Petunia realized with a jolt that nobody missed her – she was certain of that.

Harry had awakened. He quietly moved his chair next to the Dursleys so he could watch the Weasleys and friends and comment to his aunt and uncle. For breakfast he had conjured a juicy pear, a bowl of fruit salad, and a large pitcher of iced water. He ate with slurping, sloppy sounds so they could see the pear dripping down his chin, hear the smacking and contented chewing, smell the tang of the produce in their nostrils. It didn't bother Harry in the least.

He wiped his hand on his trouser leg, much to his aunt's disgust. Personal hygiene had gone out the door of Harry's life years ago. There was nobody left to wash up for. He stood and walked over the wall of paintings, wishing his friends a good morning.

At least he was calmer, Vernon observed. His nephew was nowhere near as spooky and crazy acting ever since waking some of his friends up. But when was he going to stop this torture and let them out? If he could provide mansions and feasts for a bunch of hobos, gypsies and freaks, he could at least provide for his own flesh and blood!

"Today you meet a few friends of mine" Harry said, to no one in particular. He walked up to a row of paintings at the top near the wall and turned on a few cottages. "First, we need some more homes for good people to live in" and he was amused to see a surge of hope leap into his aunt and uncle's eyes. "Here is Diagon Ally – where I bought my books, my wand, my supplies. Where Hagrid bought my Hedwig." The town street came to life, with a few shopkeepers and many stores filled with exotic goods, none of which the Dursleys could make any sense out of.

With a sad sigh he turned from the Alley and faced another blank portrait. The familiar hand gesture started, and the Dursleys watched a young couple come into view. The man was middle aged, with salt & pepper hair and signs of a hard life. His robes were patched and torn, and his eyes the most peculiar shade of amber. The lady in the painting was younger, fit and attractive except for the outrageously short hair that kept changing colors of the rainbow, much to Petunia's disgust.

"Wake up Moony, Tonks." Harry spoke softly. The figures blinked, yawned, and the girl promptly fell off her chair. Harry chuckled.

"Wotcher, Harry! How'd we snuff it?" the young woman winked at the Boy-Who-Lived. She had her arms wrapped around the man, who returned the embrace as they watched the young wizard in front of them.

"Hi ya Tonks, Moony" Harry nodded at the couple with obvious affection. "You died protecting me from Voldemort."

"I certainly hope you aren't blaming yourself, Harry!" Remus Lupin gave the boy a penetrating gaze. "As I recall, everyone was dying. Did we win?"

Harry let a shuddering sob escape. "Yeah – we did. But England will never be the same."

Remus and Tonks looked around the portrait with curiosity. "Where are we, Harry?" he asked the wizard.

"My art gallery, Moony. Feel free to look around. I have plenty homes and places to go, most of the Weasleys are here, Hagrid, Dobby and Winky."

"Petunia?" Lupin spied the Dursleys across the room. "Harry, what are you doing?"

"They can't leave" Harry broke into his disturbed, high pitched giggles. "I want them to see what they are missing, what they did." He limped over to the canvas next to the Lupins. "Wake up, Padfoot. Time to join your friends".

The dark haired, blue-eyed man woke up. He blinked and looked down at Harry. "Cub? You found my portrait! What happened to you – you look awful."

With a snort, Harry dryly answered, "Dursley happened to me."

"You mean your _uncle_ did that to you?" Sirius Black looked in horror at his one-armed, heavily scarred godson.

Vernon watched helplessly as his nephew brought the murderer Sirius Black up with all that had happened since the man had died so many years ago. Black and Lupin kept looking over at the two of them, shooting deadly, threatening looks. Why couldn't these freaks understand that he was trying to improve the boy? If he could have beaten the magic out of him, it would have done them all a favor. After all, he _had_ fed the lad with his hard earned food, clothed him with his hard earned clothes.

"What about full moons, Harry?" Remus asked nervously. Tonks hugged him in support.

"I don't know if it's an issue with paintings. The artist wasn't sure, and we are pretty far from the moon down here. But if it is, several cottages have reinforced basements, Moony" Harry shrugged. "But I also have a spell I could teach you to go to and from my aunt and uncle's canvas. It would only work for you during full moons." He broke into a crazed giggle. "You could hurt them all you want – they can't die." Remus shook his head sadly, but Sirius smiled at the Dursleys with anticipation.

"Wh-hu-at?" Vernon was sweating buckets, and Petunia again tried to back away from the all-revealing glass front of the cupboard.

"Oh – I forgot to tell you, dear Aunt, dear Uncle. Moony here is a werewolf."

* * *


	8. Chapter 8  School

**Chapter 8 - School**

Harry woke in a strange mood. Without even a glance at the Dursleys he walked to the largest canvas in the room. Vernon and Petunia watched with fear. What more horrors would their nephew arouse? How could it get any worse?

"Hey guys – here's a gift for everyone." Weasleys and friends started to come from various homes to see what Harry would do next. The maimed wizard gestured and chanted, and the large portrait revealed Hogwarts, complete with faculty and students lined up in front.

Moony walked over, shaking the hands of professors and gazing at the castle before him. He turned back to Harry, excitement and questions dancing in his amber eyes. "How, Harry? This took an amazing amount of magic."

The young wizard's eyes were sad. "Hogwarts was totally destroyed right before I killed Voldemort" he shook his head sorrowfully, "not a teacher was left. The only students who survived were purebloods. The castle was leveled. I commissioned several wizards who worked on this for a year. Most of the professors are there – I left out Dumbledore" he spat the name with obvious hatred "and most of the students from my fifth year that aren't in other portraits in my gallery are here. I don't want any of you to get bored or lonely."

"Portraits can't get bored or lonely, Cub" Sirius spoke gently. "We are created so we can not go insane."

"I know" Harry was practically whispering. "But I miss it so much."

He spun around and sat in his chair. Conjuring a light meal and ever-present bottle of wine, and he spent the hours watching.

McGonagall, Flitwich, the ghosts, Sprout, Madame Hooch and Pomphrey. They were there hugging children and chatting happily with Weasleys and Marauders who had come over to catch them up on current events. Looks of pity, mingled with disgust, horror, or fear on occasion were sent toward The-Boy-Who-Lived, but more looks of horror and disgust were aimed at the Dursleys. Snape half heartedly shook a few hands, and then walked to the front of the canvas to look at Harry.

"Didn't know you had it in you" was all he said, before spinning and striding off to his dungeons to brew for all eternity, robes billowing behind him.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9 Parents

**Chapter 9 - Parents**

They next day Harry pulled a blank canvas off the wall. He took it to a corner of the room, away from the Dursley's view and hearing.

"You are in for it now, scum" Ginny spat at Vernon and Petunia. "Harry just woke up his mum and dad, and is filling them in on everything that has happened since they died. They don't look real happy with you." The young red-haired beauty was grinning with anticipation.

"L-l-lily?" Petunia stuttered. Funny how all the years that they had Harry she never wondered how her sister would have felt about her treatment of their freak son. She has assumed with her sister being a witch they would not end up in the same place after death. Petunia wasn't even sure if there _was_ an afterlife for 'those' kind of people. She hadn't known there were alternatives to death, like this painting.

Hours passed. The Dursleys could occasionally make out sobbing coming from Harry's corner, or catch glimpses of him if he leaned back. Vernon wasn't particularly worried. They could yell all they wanted – he knew he was right to try and improve their freak of a boy. And Vernon was safe in the small cupboard.

Harry finally stood up, limped over and roughly grabbed his Aunt and Uncle's portrait from the wall. He carried it over and propped it up against a conjured easel where it faced the Potters, who were glaring with parental rage and fury. Petunia clung to her husband, begging by gesture for some comfort. She got none, as he was too wrapped up in his own fears.

"Petunia! How could you!" Lily Potter spoke in a chilling, controlled voice. "My son – my poor baby! All you were asked to do was raise one little baby!"

"I never wanted him!" Petunia was shaking and trying to move away from the green accusing eyes of her sister. "We woke up one morning and there he was next to the milk and paper! We didn't want him!"

"And so you felt it was proper to starve and beat our son and force him to live in a cupboard?" James Potter shouted his rage at the pair. The people in the other paintings all rushed forward to watch and listen in. Harry brought his chair over so he could drink and watch in comfort.

Lily was sobbing, crying, weeping for her boy. Mourning for the child robbed of his youth at the age of one and a half. "Why did you not get in touch with Dumbledore and give him back? Do you really think I would have treated Dudley poorly if _you_ had died?"

Petunia and Vernon both looked away. Although they didn't know the Potters well, they knew them enough to know they would have raised Dudley truly as their own, freaks or not.

"Never any toys? Clothes of his own? Proper meals? A bed to sleep in?" Potter shouted in fury at the dumb looking pair. "A _dog_ is treated better than that!"

"I-I-I we let him have toys and clothes. He wasn't naked! And those things are expensive – we aren't rich like you were!" Petunia reverted to spitting hysterically, driven partially mad with guilt.

"I saw your home, Petunia! You had four bedrooms, and you put him in a cupboard? He told me his toys were all broken things from your fat, spoiled brat of a son! And only the hand-me-down clothing of a whale?" Lily clung to her husband, whom Petunia noted with jealously held her back and caressed her hair in a comforting manner.

"We can't help it if freaks have little runts for babies, and our boy is big boned" Vernon growled, offended.

"My son wouldn't have been a runt if you had fed him more than scraps once a day when he was lucky! What is up with making him cook all your meals, and not feeding him, you lazy useless cow?" James' fingers were twitching, just begging to be wrapped around his wand and hexing his in-laws.

Harry leaned back in his chair, enjoying the fireworks. They hadn't even started in on his missing arm, ruined leg, ruined face. He sipped the port he had conjured for the evening, feeling his muscles relax and his mind fuzz out, accepting his parents stanch support of himself. It had taken him years to understand that what the Dursleys had done to him was not his fault. It was good to finally hear the voices and affirmations he had fantasized about for so many lonely years.

The yelling went long into the night, or at least the time period that Harry used as night. When he had felt satiated with the righteous fury of his parents, he hung the portraits back up, and fell asleep to the warm sight of Remus and Sirius once more greetingand pounding Prongs on the back, welcoming him back to the Marauders with a butterbeer.

* * *


	10. Chapter 10 Friends

**Chapter 10 - Friends**

Three canvases remained dark and silent on the far wall. The Dursleys waited for their nephew to wake up and start the torture. It wasn't fair. They were his flesh and blood. Perhaps they had been a bit harsh with the boy, and maybe they could have been a bit more generous, but to make them sit and listen to freaks yelling at them, watching the freaks eat, drink, sleep and play – it was just cruel.

"It gets worse and worse, Vernon" Petunia whispered, hoping Harry would keep sleeping. "Who could possibly be next? What could be worse than Lily? Why can't she stop glaring at us? I'm dead because of her freak world – what more does she want?"

"They aren't people, Petunia" Vernon shook his head, trying to get some distance and personal space in the cramped cupboard. "They are animals – we always knew that."

'_I suppose I treated animals better than my nephew'_ came the unbidden thought into Petunia's mind. She shook her head – where did that come from?

Harry rolled out of his cot and cast his alert, glowing eyes at his Aunt and Uncle. "Good morning" he simpered sarcastically. He waved his hand and conjured a table facing the portrait, his back to his friend's canvases, and filled the table with a sumptuous repast. He thought of every tasty food that was ever served at the Weasley's home, or the Hogwart's feasts. Every delectable treat that had been available before the war.

Vernon and Petunia licked their dry lips for the thousandth time that week. The food looked so good, smelled so wonderful. Harry sat himself down and proceeded to pick and choose from the many over flowing dishes. "Too bad you can't have any" he mumbled joyfully around a mouth full.

After a short time the wizard could not eat anymore. He truly wasn't hungry, but he knew it would kill his uncle in particular to watch him . He banished the food and moved to the wall. "Three to go" he muttered, watching Ginny play with Dobby and Winky in front of the manor. His shaking hand pressed against the surface of the painting. "It's all most over".

Reaching over one canvas, he did the spell and brought a painting to life. Petunia and Vernon watched a young couple come into focus, and he recognized the pair as friends of his nephews they had seen at the train station. Another red-headed boy and a young woman with thick, bushy brown hair.

"Ron, Hermione? Time to wake up" Harry spoke fondly to the sleeping pair.

They woke up and blushed as consciousness allowed them to see they were in each other's arms. "Harry, mate – what happened?" Ron spoke at last.

Tears poured non-stop down Harry's scared cheeks, running in strange directions due to the severe scarring. "You injured him, Ron. Your spells worked really well, 'Mione. But it took a few more years to kill him. He got you first." He placed his hand over the flat hands of his portrait friends. "I've missed you so much."

"He's gone, Harry? Who's left?" Hermione watched her friend with love and pity.

"Only me" he whispered. "Only me."

"What are _they_ doing here?" Ron gestured and frowned at the Dursleys, who glared back.

Harry just giggled in reply.

"Oh Harry" Hermione sobbed in pity and sorrow. "I knew the Dark Arts were too much. Look what has happened to you."

"I couldn't have killed him without it, 'Mione" Harry shrugged. He conjured his chair and toasted to his dead friends. "You've got just about everyone here, guys. Your family, Ron, Hogwarts, the professors, friends – lots of places to live. We can all be together at last."

"But you aren't here, mate" Ron gently pointed out. He took Hermione by the hand and led her to another painting. They looked around with approval.

"Soon". That was all Harry said the rest of the day. He sat down to watch his gallery, back turned to the Dursleys.

* * *


	11. Chapter 11 Cousin

**Chapter 11 - Cousin**

"You are gonna love this" Harry laughed. The sound made Petunia shiver and Vernon frown. They felt quite sure they wouldn't.

"Two paintings left – who could they be, dear Aunt, dear Uncle?" Harry wiped some drool from his chin and limped over. This painting was dead center of the room, directly across from the Dursleys. He tried to say the words to bring the painting to life, but he had to keep stopping due to fits of the giggles.

Finally the deed was done and Harry stepped back to give his relatives a full view. He leered at them, glowing with anticipation.

"Duddums?" Petunia and Vernon gasped in unison.

"Mum? Dad?" Dudley awoke to find himself in the cupboard at home. How he ever fit through that door was beyond him. It was cramped, smelly, and semi dark – one tiny bulb lit the small space. He was lying on a dirty mattress that was way too small, and the only objects in the room were a ratty blanket and a few broken toys. His back was turned to his parent's portrait and he was facing the wall. "Did my stupid cousin put me in here – boy is he going to get it."

The obese boy saw light coming from in back of him and turned around the best he could. He gaped stupidly at the glass that made up the wall where the door should have been. Across the room from him was not the parlor of Privet Drive, but a stone wall. And on that wall hung a painting or a fancy framed window. And in that window his parents stared back with horror.

Petunia screamed, Vernon shouted, Dudley cried and Harry smiled.

"Welcome to eternity, Duddlykins" Harry leered at his fat panicking cousin. "Let me catch you up on current events. You are dead. Your dear parents are dead. Actually, three-quarters of Britain is dead. When your meathead of a father threw me out of the house, the protective wards keeping you safe fell, and Voldemort killed you all."

Dudley stared at Harry, his dull eyes showing that nothing made it from his ears to his brain yet.

"I commissioned this magical painting – an exact replica of my cupboard – for you to live in. You aren't really alive, but you can't tell the difference. You will starve, you will thirst. You will see your parents going through the same. But you can never leave, and you will never die. You will feel everything I felt for those ten years – without the broken bones, cuts, bruises, and beatings. I was nice – I even left you two arms. That's more than dear Uncle left me." Harry leaned back, smirking.

"Mummy! Get me out!" Dudley threw a fit like a two-year old, pounding the floor and walls, screaming on the top of his lungs. Petunia sobbed in impotence, Vernon glared at his nephew.

"What's the matter, Duddlykins? Don't like the accommodations? It was good enough for me all those years" Harry glared at the hysterical boy. "I had the artist bring you back as an eleven year old again. Just so your 'mummy' could see how precious you were at that age, and so you could see just how well an eleven year old fits in a cupboard on a crib's mattress." He drank deeply from a glass and smiled with satisfaction. "A bit cramped, isn't it. Especially for a 'big boned' boy like yourself."

After watching the Dursleys hysterical ravings for a while, Harry stood once again. He waved his arm, muttering spells.

"What are you doing now, freak?" Vernon sputtered. Hadn't the boy done enough already?

Harry shrugged. "I put permanent silencing spells on both your canvases. You can hear everything going on around you – noise from the other paintings, Dudley's voice and mine. But now the other paintings don't have to hear your whining and crying. Just like you never heard mine."

He turned abruptly from the Dursleys and limped over to the many inhabited paintings on the wall. He spoke a bit with Ginny and then went to his cot, and Petunia noticed that her nephew fell asleep smiling. That made her very uncomfortable. She looked over at Dudley, who was still sobbing. How she longed to take his pain, hold him and kiss him like that Weasley woman comforted her sons.

"Suck it up, son!" Vernon called over to Dudley. "Let's show these freaks what men the Dursleys are!"

"I can't even _see_ the freaks!" Dudley bawled. "All I can see is you, and you are boring!"

'_All I can hear is you'_ Petunia thought privately. _'Were you always this whiney and self-centered?'_

* * *


	12. Chapter 12 Home

**Chapter 12 - Home**

Harry woke smiling, glowing with joy in his heart for the first time in many long years. His various aches and stiffness didn't bother him for once, and even the phantom pain from his missing arm was gone. Nothing would spoil today. He had waited a long time.

He walked to the last remaining painting and brought it to light. Vernon looked at it strangely – it was a sleeping portrait of Harry himself. But a young Harry – somewhere around 16 years old, before the arm incident, or the leg incident, or the cut-up face incident. The sleeping Potter had a peaceful, almost childlike look to his face. This Harry Potter wasn't crazed from years of pain and anguish. There wasstrength, scarring,and wisdom that stemmed from abuse and lack of a childhood in the portrait's demeanor, but Vernon wasn't sharp enough to pick up on that. Hedwig was on his shoulder, gazing at the living Harry with sympathetic eyes.

"Why don't you wake yourself up, then, boy?" he snarled at his nephew.

"Can't" was Harry's simply reply. "He'll wake up automatically when I die.

"Well, that can't happen too soon" Vernon spat.

"Careful what you wish for, dear Uncle" Harry turned and smiled at him. It was an oily, evil smile. "I am the only one who can free a painting, or control its abilities. I can turn them off or on. I can grant access for them." His smile grew wider. "I can't do any of that once I'm dead."

Petunia paled. "All right, Harry. You've had your laugh. Perhaps we weren't the best guardians, but you survived, and as Vernon pointed out, it made you strong. I think you owe us enough to let us out of here or at least give us a cottage." Vernon nodded dumbly in agreement, and Dudley, lying on his side, gazed in hope from across the room.

With a snort Harry ignored the Dursleys and gazed at his own portrait. Ginny entered it and looked at him with soft pity and love. "This was the age I first truly loved you, Harry" she spoke at last, hand on the sleeping Harry's shoulder.

He watched the portrait Ginny with sorrow. "It took me a while to realize you really loved _me_ and not The-Boy-Who-Lived, Gin."

"This was a good time in your life – you hadn't been so abused that your heart turned bitter." She stroked the cheek of the sleeping Harry and looked pointedlyat the living one. "I don't want you to die – you know that."

"I'm already dead" was the answer, punctuated by a sob.

He limped over to the Dursleys, casting one longing look back to Ginny. Giggling, drooling, and cackling, he conjured a comfortable chair facing them, back turned to Ginny and the wall of paintings. He conjured a low screen that blocked the view any portraits on the far wall might have of the back of the chair and the insane person that sat in it. He conjured a table with a feast upon it. He glared, then smiled at his aunt and uncle and sat down. They stared back, uncomprehending.

"You don't even regret how you treated me, do you?" Hetooka deep drink from aglass of wine and studied his relatives. The haughty, prideful look on his aunt's face, the mean glower of his uncle gave him the answer. Calm now, he smirked and extinguished the torches. The chair he sat in glowed faintly, so in the dim light the Dursleys could see him clearly. The paintings across the room each gave off their own brightness so Petunia and Vernon couldwatch every detail of each canvas. But other than that, the room was dark as a tomb.

He waved his hand over the food on the table. "Now, dear Aunt, dear Uncle – this food will never rot, never go away. It will last probably forever. I say probably, because perhaps someone may find my underground hideaway some day in the far future. But I doubt it. Perhaps the magic in these paintings will fade with time. But Hogwarts had portraits over a thousand years old, and they are as fresh and new as if painted yesterday."

"W-w-where are you going, Harry?" Petunia screeched in alarm. "Don't leave us!"

Harry ignored her. Just as she had ignored him all those years.

"That's quite enough, boy" Vernon shouted at him. "You've had your fun – now get us out of here."

Harry ignored him. Just as his uncle had ignored his pleas for mercy all those times.

"This, dear Aunt, dear Uncle" he waved a small bottle in his hand, "is a very strong poison. I will now join my family and friends over there. I will live forever with them, young, healthy, having fun. We will be confined to our personalities of the time of the paintings, so we can not grow old, discontented or bored. We will all be very happy." He flicked the cork off of the small glass vial with his thumb. "You, on the other hand, will have nothing to do for eternity, but watch me decompose,listen toDudley whine, andobserve my friends and I have fun."

Vernon and Petunia gaped in horror. "No" she whispered. "At least kill us!"

"I told Ginny what I was going to do. Every one of my friends and loved ones have agreed not to tell my new/old self that I'm rotting over here, armless and broken. As far as I will know when I awake, I died a hero and intact. As far as I will remember, I had a loveless and thankless childhood, but I wasn't the victim of a deranged psycho." He glowered darkly at Vernon.

"You don't even have a clue what you did was wrong." He shook his head sadly. "If you had shown the least amount of regret – any of you – I would have turned off your painting, or given you a cottage. If there was any humanity in your hearts, you could have had access to the rest of the paintings." He gazed at them with pity. "There is nothing in you – you truly are soulless animals."

With a swift movement he downed the poison, leaned back in his seat and smiled at his Aunt and Uncle. With his dying breath he could hear Dudley shouting across the room "What's going on? What's the freak doing Mum?" He could barely hear Petunia and Vernon shouting at him, demanding that he not die and free them.

And so he left the realm of the living.

The Dursleys stared, dumfounded, at the body of their nephew. They heard a commotion on the far wall and watched the many beings from many paintings shouting with excitement "he's here! Harry's coming!" People started running canvas to canvas toward the sleeping Harry that was stirring and yawning. He blinked his impossibly green eyes and looked up into Ginny's welcoming smile.

"Welcome home, my love" she crooned, kissing him firmly.

"What happened, Gin? Where are we?" The younger Harry looked around with curiosity. "Did we die?"

"Yep – but you took care of Moldyshorts" she took his hand and pulled him out of the chair. "We've all been waiting for you."

Petunia and Vernon watched dully – shock rendered them numb for the time being. Petunia kept glancing over at her nephew's dead body, peaceful yet somehow still insane looking. How long before it started to rot? How long before it got disgusting? How long before it was nothing but a skeleton forever and ever and ever?

"What's going on?" Dudley whined on the top of his voice. "I can't see anything! What's all the noise?"

They couldn't answer yet – the shock was too new, too real.

Like an impoverished child gazing through the window of a candy store, where the rich children were spending their money. Like the sad, sobbing child who use to lay by the door of the cupboard, wishing to join in a family. That ishow the Dursley's felt.

Had they been there a month? A year? Fifty years? There was no way of knowing. Harry's corpse had gone the way of all flesh, and nothing remained but a grinning skeleton, smiling accusingly at them. The seat Harry had conjured was tilted just right so its head remained firmly in place, and hadn't fallen to gravity. Petunia tried not to look.

Dudley and they tried to talk, but they swiftly found their boy was indeed stupid, spoiled, and vapid. Without the television to baby-sit his stilted brain, the boy ended up turning his back to the glass wall facing his parents and slept most of his time. It was punctuated with occasional bouts of outrageous temper tantrums.

Harry was as good as his word – the other portraits seemed oblivious to them. They tried to get the portrait Harry's attention many times, but either they were too dimly lit or they were shielded magically from the far wall. It seemed Dudley was the only one who could hear or see Vernon and Petunia.

Vernon and Petunia sniffed in disgust at the skeleton facing them. No – they had no regrets. Because the Petunia and Vernon Dursley created from the snips of hair collected from the trash basket had no regrets. A painting never ages, never grows, never changes. They live that moment in time forever. With no regrets.

THE END

* * *

_**Author Notes:**_

_**Yes, this is dark and unhappy**. I said so at the start. It does end on a somewhat optimistic note – that the portrait Harry, painted from a happier time in his life, will now last indefinitely with his loved ones. No, it's not the 'real' Harry – the soul has gone on to whatever after life, but this was the only escape that Harry's tortured brain could come up with – his only reason for carrying on. A created happy escape, and a way to get back at the Dursleys._

_Just to clear it up, when Harry tells Ginny in this chapter **"I'm already dead",** he meant emotionally. He wasn't dying, he wasn't a ghost or zombie or anything like that._

_**A few random thoughts on magical paintings**. I love Rowling's moving portraits – they figured heavily in my story Manipulator of Destiny, and I have a fanfic in the works about a witch portrait painter. Love the whole concept! I feel that paintings are like an interactive doll for the most part. The world's most sophisticated Furbee. I would think that a portrait would not be able to learn very much or grow and change with the times at all – it would destroy the purpose of having a portrait made. They seem to be a way of capturing a person in a moment in time so you can always talk with them or ask them questions about what had happened, and get feedback based on that point in time. In M.o.D. I have portraits with their souls, but that is not the case in this story._

_I feel part of having a painting made would have to include changing the subject's personality to some degree – remove the chance for insanity, boredom, etc. If it was a real person in a portrait, they would go quickly over the bend from claustrophobia, frustration, boredom, etc. There would have to be a built in feeling of contentment and wish to serve. A glaring exception to this is Mrs. Black at Grimmauld place. She was insane to begin with, and either she or a warped relative decided to create her portrait to bother people indefinitely. _

_There is a definite **difference between Dudley's eternity and Petunia & Vernon's'**. Dudley was cruel to Harry, but Harry felt to some degree Dudley was a victim himself. He didn't want Dudley watching the other portrait's enjoying themselves to add to his torment. He gives Dudley a mattress and room to sleep. But in a conflicting gesture, Harry knows that Dudley only likes bullying and the telly – now he doesn't have either to do, and watching portraits would be like having TV again. Keep in mind, Harry is 'one taco short of a combo platter'. _

_Harry also wanted Dudley separated from his folks. He wanted them to feel how he felt apart – able to see relatives but not 'feel' them. He certainly wanted his aunt and uncle to see Harry happy and whole, and see the contrasting corpse before them. He wanted them to feel the hunger and see the food before them, but didn't feel Dudley needed to be tortured as much._

_**Why don't Harry's friends disapprove of what he is doing before he commits suicide**? There is mild disapproval – we are left with the impression that Remus refuses to learn the spell to ravage the Dursleys on the full moon. Hermione gently rebukes him. Ginny gently points out she doesn't want him to do what she realizes he plans on doing (commit suicide). But again, if a portrait does not have submission and contentment built into the creation, they would not hang around for hundreds of years talking and helping the living. The headmaster's portraits in Hogwarts deliver messages, spy, advise, and remind (they are the world's coolest daily planner!) the current headmaster. The entry portraits to the common rooms do the same. If I was stuck forever in a limited space or spaces like they are, I would grow surly, depressed, and very unhelpful, I'm sure. So in example, even though the real Hermione might really nag away at Harry and try to turn him light again, the painting Hermione gently rebukes as a reminder of what Hermione was, but essentially remains his loyal friend. _

_**Yes, the chapters in this story are short**. I was aiming for an emotional mood, and didn't want detail to slow it down. It was written primarily from the Dursley's point of view – they don't understand the magical world or what is going on. They don't feel they've done anything wrong. They are not bright enough to have deep thoughts or philosophical debates. I originally aimed for a long one-shot, but felt the chapters help to add dramatic pause and gives the reader a chance for emotional breaks. I felt it would be far too depressing in one chunk._

_**Flamers**. I don't understand them. This is my third fanfiction and I just don't get it. If you don't like it, and have nothing constructive to say, stop reading it and move on. My favorite flame is "I just wasted my time reading 10 chapters of your trash". Um, at least I'm bright enough to know a couple chapters into a story that I don't care for it and move on. "You can't write". Um – yes, I can. Now am I a good writer? That's simply opinion. If you don't like it, write your own stories. Then you get to deal with flames of your own._

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